The parents have been and gone, and life is back to normal. I have not been too busy at work, home by mid afternoon most days, but I still somehow feel slightly stressed out. I have been feeling a little pressure to paint, which makes all my creative urges go out the window, and no matter how virtuous I try to be, the house is still a mess and the fridge is still empty. And on nice days, I am stressed that I can't be outside enjoying it, and on rainy days, I am even more depressed- winteriness is only a few weeks away.

But, oh well. Bob has been painting houses, a job he will not let me help him with anymore. A succession of near catastrophes and outright disasters has him scratching his head, not sure how it works that someone who can smear a canvas with a bunch of colors and have it come out looking like something, cannot smear the side of a house with only one color, and keep it off the surrounding surfaces. I think it has something to do with the ADD and the need to express myself, and the lack of self-expression found on a condo wall, and it's just so hard to spread the 1059th stroke with the same tedious precision that was spent on the first stroke. (My mom kept an assignment I did in kindergarten as proof that my attention span has always been rather brief- a paper with twelve churches to color. The first one is nice- stained glass windows, wooden doors, shingles... the twelfth one is nearly obscured by a mad scribble of purple crayon.)

I think we both need a vacation. We'll get one in September. The plan is to pull the boat to Table Rock Lake, by Branson, MO, for a week. By that time it will be pointless to have to boat up here, it will be much too cold to use it.

We took my parents out to "our" lake when they were here. It was really nice, being able to show them a Colorado that does not consist of swirling snow, kids everywhere, everyone stressed to the snapping point because of the winter workload, and piles of holiday food. We went Jeeping, took them up to where the air was thin and there was still snow, and parked and watched the mountain goats scamper over impossible cliffs and rockslides. We ate pizza at Downstairs at Eric's, a basement sports bar/former locals dive that, ten years ago, suddenly became as well known as Breckenridge itself. Not that anyone begrudges the tourists their business, after all the food really is as good as the hype says it is. Dad made a pit stop at Wal-Mart and armed himself with rod, reel, and assorted tackle, as well as a three day fishing license, effectively (he claims) killing his chances of catching anything. Apparently, the fish keep an eye on fishing license sales, and are warned before he casts his first line. He fished a number of streams, but finally started getting some bites at the lake. Three nibbles, one lovely trout. We served him as an appetizer, but only because he turned upside down and stopped moving before we had determined whether or not an only fish was worth keeping. Mom and I swam in the lake, which was livably warm after we had been in it for about ten minutes. The woman even waterskied. I must say, I was proud of her.